Anyone who tells you being old is a state of mind isn’t yet old enough to know. At best we have aches and pains to deal with, at worst its terminal illness and death; that’s our reality.
Yesterday was my husband’s birthday; he would have been seventy-four. He turned seventy on his last live birthday; his friend, Pablo threw a fine party for him. It pleases me to remember how happy my darling was that day.
At ninety-four, my mom is healthy enough that she’s optimistically reaching for one hundred. A happy dotage living among her offspring; can you picture all the happy old bubbies/abuelas in the world? We love them. They gave shape to the character of our generation. My mom was a child of the Great Depression whose pain I could see clearly when she told stories of relief shoes and food lines.
If we were to pick a favorite, most instrumental woman in our life, mine would be my father’s sister, my aunt Margaret, who at eighty-eight begged me to help her die. I turned cold when I heard her ask. In one of my more selfish moments, I told her I couldn’t jeopardize my soul by such an act and how she could do it by herself if that was her true intention; she never did, but ten months later God took her.
At some point for all of us, the end will be the option. Deal with it or be a big pussy about it, nothing changes.
All I know is that if this is to be my last sunset, I don’t want to be in the house watching TV. To look at someone, smile, and be happy compensates for enduring many aches. To say, thank you for the small things people do for me gives me pleasure.
Blessed with the time to contemplate how others have helped me or been kind, I find myself extraordinarily grateful.
Until unable, I shall as we said in the late seventies or maybe early eighties, keep on truckin!
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